


A story about you...

by Sionnan



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: A story about you, Gen, Possesion, That's what, and what really goes on in the studio, and why Cecil knows everything you're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sionnan/pseuds/Sionnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about you...</p>
<p>Well, no, it isn't. This is the story of how Cecil Palmer knows everything that you're doing, after you grabbed that box from the regular shipment. And the lengths that Cecil has to go to get that knowledge are not pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A story about you...

**Author's Note:**

> Since Welcome to Night Vale is primarily an audio format, I've also done a reading of my fic. You can to listen to it by itself or use it to follow along with the story. Enjoy!
> 
> https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/42185449/Recording%2041.wav

The new intern hovers nervously in the doorway, (they think his name is Brad, but they can't remember all that well, since they have a rotating base of intern about every two weeks). He watches as the host for one of the most popular Night Vale Radio fixtures prepares at the studio desk.

He-- the host-- is dressed in his normal, business-like attire. Crisp white shirt, blandly patterned tie, a slight smile, and a thousand yard stare that most of the older residents wear. Occasionally, life flickers there, amusement or fear or confusion, but mostly his eyes are empty windows to a vacant house.

The host pushes at the little intercom button that links him between his booth and the control room, and double checks with the rest of the staff. "Good evening folks, how are we doing?"

They exchange a little banter and catching up. One of the more permanent interns has stepped into Cecil's sound booth, with a sad little smile and a small slat of wood in her hands. He greets her, and the intern can hear Cecil's baritone in several different, disorienting places (including from the coffee pot in the corner, oddly enough). 

She hands the wood to him, and he thanks her. 

"We're on in 3 minutes, Cecil," says the sound engineer. Cecil smiles sunnily and blankly through the soundproof glass, and settles into his chair, clearing his throat.

Silence envelopes the studio, as though a spectacle were about to begin. The intern can catch several people holding their breath.

Cecil straightens his tie and smooths a hand nervously across his hair. Then, he delicately picks up the wood slat, takes a breath, and puts in between his teeth. His eyes slip closed, and the intern can sense the tension mounting in the small suite of rooms that make up the radio station.

Then Cecil's head falls back, and he begins to jerk and shudder, his body seizing and bits of froth working from the corners of his mouth, the muscles in his jaws so tight that the wood between his teeth is beginning to splinter. 

Small, inarticulate sounds of distress rip from the figure. It can't last for any more than fifteen seconds, but the unexpected ritual, something the intern has not yet witnessed in his work at the radio station, seems intolerably long. 

Finally, the jerking slows and only a few rogue twitches course through Cecil's long arms. He is slumped to the side, breathing heavily, and his eyes are half open, but all that show are the whites. 

His head slowly rights itself, strangely deliberate. Then his body seems to follow suit, like a marrionette whose puppeteer has not yet mastered fluid movement. One of his hands reaches up, and removes the wood piece, and it is stained with blood.

Then, his movements seems abruptly normal. He brushes a bit of wood from his tie, clears his throat again, and resettles himself in his chair. 

But his eyes are still rolled back in his head, and a vein pulses visibly in his temple. No one says a word.

Then, the sound engineer thumbs the intercom switch. "Live in 10, Cecil."

Cecil throws him a thumbs up. 

"8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and you're live."

"Good evening, listeners. This is a story about you..."

The intern casts a wide, fearful glance at the more permanent intern who has surreptitiously removed the wood slat from Cecil's booth. She gives him a thin smile. "Possession ritual. Cecil's all about helping the town officials, and apparently one of the boxes went missing from a shipment on the edge of town. So Cecil offered to keep track of the guy by broadcasting him live."

That was... weirdly heoric. "Will he be okay?"

She considered. "Yeah, I think so. He's already been through a lot. I think he has nine lives."

The intern chuckled, but she cut him off with a sharp glance. "No, seriously. I mean, Cecil has consistently broken a lot of town laws, and gone through the punishments. I've personally watched him die once, sitting right there at that chair. It was a few years back. He died on air. The next evening, he was back like nothing happened."

The intern's frozen horror had returned, and he swung a petrified gaze back to the nondescript man at the mic. "Is he... human?"

"Oh, well, yeah. Sure, he's human. This is just Night Vale; something weird happens to everyone all the time. Cecil just doesn't die."

Another intern sidled next to them, speaking ridiculously out of the corner of his mouth. "I heard they crucified him once in the Sand Wastes for talking about the You Know What."

"Silence in the studio, please," called the sound engineer peevishly, one hand pressed against his earpad.

The only sound was Cecil, relating someone's story, to the quiet and listening city of Night Vale.


End file.
